


One Single Static Frame

by TheQuietWings



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Autistic Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Blanket Permission, Dissociation, Emotional Hurt, Established Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, He/Him Pronouns For Nonbinary Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Holding Hands, Hugs, Introspection, M/M, Memory Loss, Other, POV Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Powerlessness, Sharing a Bed, Upton House (The Magnus Archives), i guess those last two don't really come up they're just important to me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:26:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26999644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheQuietWings/pseuds/TheQuietWings
Summary: Jonathan Sims Can't Take Care Of Himself: Upton House EditionFeat. one very stressed Archivist, Martin Blackwood as his beautiful self, a creepy spider lady, and a brief appearance by our king, Mikaele Salesa.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 13
Kudos: 193





	One Single Static Frame

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LaCroixLime](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaCroixLime/gifts).



> title from "Autoclave" by the Moutain Goats which is a Jonmartin song if i ever heard one like damn
> 
> shout out to LaCroixLime, she made this happen.

Jon catalogs three things upon waking.

One, that sleeping might be the most pleasant sensation he’s felt in months. There’s no one in his dreams here, just quiet and comfort and the sort of darkness that didn’t hide creatures with far too many teeth.

Two, that waking up, on the other hand, is not half as fun. His entire body aches, he swears he can feel his stomach turning on itself, and he can feel dirt and who knows what else settled so deep into his skin, it must be permanent. He groans, _even his eyelids feel sore, how is that possible_ , and stretches, reaches out towards the warm side of the bed where Martin-

Three, Martin is gone.

Jon sits up too fast, and every muscle he has makes itself known by screaming in protest. It doesn’t matter, none of that matters. He takes a breath, focuses, Looks. Looks. His fingers curl in, nails into his palms. He can’t See here. He can’t See Martin, and if Martin’s in danger, he can’t protect him. What if, while he was sleeping, blissfully unaware, the Lonely stole Martin away again? What if Annabelle Cane had him? What if-

“Martin!” He’s already scrambling out of the bed, kicking the sheets off him and to the ground. It’ll be his fault if Martin’s hurt, his fault for bringing him here, stopping for his stupid curiosity when they need to keep traveling to London. He can’t seem to get enough breath in him, and he calls out again, desperate, “Martin!”

“What is it, Jon?” But there he is, standing in the doorway and toweling off his hair with a yawn. He’s there, and he’s fine, and Jon wishes someone would tell his lungs that before they suffocate him. Martin’s smile falls when he sees the look on Jon’s face. “What? What happened? Are you hurt?” He sounds worried. About Jon. This is all backwards.

“I-” He hears the waver in his voice and internally recoils from it. He schools himself, commands his body to obey him, damnit. For Martin’s sake, if not his own. “You were gone.” He still feels small when he says it, like a child waking from a nightmare. He half expects Martin to laugh at him. Instead, his eyes widen, first in surprise, and then soften with understanding. Jon watches every change with intent. He’s still learning Martin’s expressions.

“Oh, Jon.” Martin says, quietly. He moves, opens his arms in what Jon’s come to understand as an invitation. He doesn’t feel even a bit of guilt for jumping into the embrace and holding on a little too tight. He needs to know Martin is there, because he can’t Know anymore, and so he notes down everything from the way Jon’s eagerness pushes a tired chuckle out of him to the smell of unfamiliar shampoo to the way Martin manages to make him feel enveloped without trapping him. Martin’s hugs have been the only safe haven in this world for months, where, for only a moment, he swore he could exist without the fear of thousands flooding his mind. Even here, in the quiet, it still feels like Martin holds all the light left in the world, and he’s choosing to share a little of it with Jon. He’s so focused on all of that, that it takes him a second to realize Martin’s speaking again. “I’m sorry. I should have woken you, but you looked peaceful and I thought-”

“No,” Jon interrupts, though he’s saying it more to Martin’s shirt than to Martin but he’s reticent to pull away just yet. “No, it’s quite alright. I was... overreacting.” He has to let go to look up at Martin’s face again, and he does, however reluctantly. Martin’s eyes are a beautiful brown. He’s never gotten the chance to admire them before, but he’d like to. He wants to know what Martin’s like when he’s not running or constantly looking over his shoulder, and this place isn’t perfect but it may be all they have. “We’re safe.” He says, and he thinks he means it.

“Well. Good.” Martin smiles at him tentatively. “Because Jon, no offense, you smell _awful_.” His voice is teasing, but the arms wrapped around Jon’s waist are still solid and steady. “You can’t even imagine how nice a shower will feel.” Martin’s already clean and his hair is still damp, but the way he pulls Jon along with him makes it clear that he doesn’t intend to leave him alone for another second. Jon isn’t going to argue.

~~~~

On the second day, Salesa cooks for them. He waves off Martin’s offers to help.

“Please, relax, you are my guests,” and then he gives Jon a sideways glance, coupled with a mischievous smile. “And it’s not like you will accept breakfast from Annabelle.”

“That’s just common sense.” He grumbles. Salesa laughs as he flips what Jon thinks is an omelette? Though he can’t know for sure without asking. What little pride he still has keeps him from doing so.

“He’s so easy to provoke.” Salesa says. “I can see why you keep this one around, Martin.” Jon has a retort on the tip of his tongue, but it dies without any fuss. Martin’s sitting across the table from him, had been holding his hand, but now he’s covering his mouth, clearly trying to hide the fact that he’s also laughing at Jon. Jon Knows literally everything, so he can say without doubt that Martin laughing is one of the most beautiful things he’s ever seen. It’s certainly the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard.

This place isn’t good for him. Every step feels like uneven ground. He loses the tail-end of sentences sometimes even when he’s listening as hard as he can. He feels untethered, like he’s stumbling blind through his own home but someone rearranged the furniture and every wrong movement leaves him with another bruise. And yet. All of that is worth it if Martin can breathe easy for a few days. He can find his way through the dark if he follows the sound of Martin’s laughter.

Martin meets his gaze. Jon imagines he must look incredibly serious right now, but it only makes Martin bite his lip as his shoulders shake with another held back laugh. “Stop pouting, Jon. He’s right.” He says. Jon feels something inside him let go at Martin’s words, and he accepts this. His laughter sounds rusty, but perhaps with a little time, he’ll be more used to it.

“I suppose.” Martin slides his hand back across the table to hold Jon’s. Jon absently rubs his thumb over the back of Martin’s hand. Everything will be okay.

“Now, lovebirds,” Salesa interrupts with a flourish. “Breakfast.”

~~~~

Sleeping, he enjoys. The act of falling asleep, not so much. Jon turns again. It’d been nice earlier when Martin had been holding him, at least for a while, but then it was too warm and he’d rolled away. Now, it was too cold, and Martin had turned over on his back. Jon sat up, rubbed at the bridge of his nose. He had no idea how Martin slept so... well. He’d thought that here, he’d have some respite from his mind, but somehow that’s worse. It’s like there’s a heavy fog in his head. Sometimes, it falls in front of his eyes and he can’t figure out what he’s looking at. Sometimes, it blocks his ears and Martin has to call his name twice or three times to get his attention. Sometimes, it curls around his limbs, trips him up and makes him clumsy. He cringes at the memory of closing his finger in a cabinet earlier. At least when it feels like his own limbs are up in open rebellion, they feel like his.

He drops his hands to his lap, rubbing them together. Touching things makes them feel more real and doing this had always made him feel better before. Although, what he’d been warding off before were the constant hum of the Archive lights, the scratch of a new jacket he wasn’t used to, or the sound of voices at the end of a long day, when it was just too much. He’s not sure if the same motions will help him with his Apocaylptic Fear God Power Withdrawal, but it can’t hurt. He closes his eyes, leans his head back until it bumps against the wall, and listens.

Martin is snoring. His mouth twitches with the echo of a smile. It’s not loud, exactly, but it’s not subtle either. It brings back memories of the safehouse, before... everything. The awkward fumbling of ‘who takes the bed, you should have it, no you, we can both take it’ and the realization that he rather liked having Martin near enough to touch or to hold. Cuddling wasn’t an impulse ingrained into him (Though, to be fair, his past reference is Georgie, and she kicked in her sleep.) but to feel Martin’s heartbeat, to know he was still alive, was more important to him than anything else.

He’s forgetting things. Small things, for now, things he can afford to lose: the word to go with a definition, something Melanie once said to him that he can’t quite recall, the plot of a book he read years ago. He gazes down at Martin. He’s lovely, even with his strawberry-blond hair all messy with sleep and his quiet little snore. Jon can’t bring himself to look on these things as flaws. They are all _Martin_ , and that alone makes them remarkable. He loves this man with all his heart. He remembers when that scared him, but love seems a silly thing to be frightened of when the world’s gone to hell in a handbasket.

“Jon,” Martin mumbles. Jon freezes guiltily. “You’re staring. It’s creepy.”

“Sorry.” He apologizes. He’s not sure how to tell Martin that he can’t remember the color of his eyes, and that, for some reason, upsets him more than the other memories he’s lost. He can’t forget Martin. He won’t. “Sorry.” He apologizes again and settles back down into the bed.

~~~~

Jon leans against a wall to catch his breath. The dizzy spells are getting worse. He’s been lucky around Martin. It’s been enough to sit down, close his eyes for a few seconds, and he thinks, _he hopes_ , Martin hasn’t noticed. He tilts his head until his temple is resting against the wall. It’s cool to the touch, but that helps him banish the disorientation. He only needs a minute, that’s all, and then he’ll keep going.

“There you are.” He startles badly, hits his shoulder against the wall. He does his best to glare up at Annabelle through the new wave of dizziness and the pain. She towers over him, grinning down with a mouth that has the expected amount of human teeth yet gives the impression of having far, far more. “I’ve been waiting to get you alone, Archivist.”

“Why?” Jon asks through grit teeth. The question is habit, not choice. Somehow, he thinks Annabelle knows this.

“I wanted to ask you about Martin. He’s survived with you this long. I know Peter Lukas had designs on him, but... We both remember how that turned out for him.” He can’t help it but trying to track the shine of the webs trailing through her skin only makes him more disoriented. If she didn’t already serve the Web, she could make a good run of helping the Spiral. He almost tells her this, but keeps his mouth firmly shut. There’s just the hint of a scowl on her face when he doesn’t respond to her probing. “Or perhaps you don’t remember anymore? You’ve been cut from the Eye for a long time.”

“If you know what I did to Peter Lukas, you know to stay away from Martin.” He snaps. Her smile grows maliciously, and she leans forward.

“I’ll confess, hearing about that debacle did make me hesitate.” Jon’s eyes lock onto a spider, no bigger than the tip of his index finger, crawling up her face. It pauses, flexing tiny fangs, and then continues up onto her eye and wriggles under her eyelid, disappearing. “But I like to have back-up plans. If you fail, wouldn’t you be proud to have Martin succeed in your place? He’d be perfect.”

“Martin would never allow that.”

“No,” she admitted. “Not yet.”

“Never.” He repeated, adamant. She looked at him as though she wanted to eat him alive.

“It’s been nice talking with you, Archivist.” Something large and hairy brushed past Jon’s leg, quiet, clicking, scuttling over the wooden floorboards. He jumped back with a yell, looking down at... an empty floor. And Annabelle... He blinked, once, twice. What about Annabelle?

“Jon? Why’re you just standing there?” Martin asked. Jon blinked again, searching for an explanation.

“Thinking.” He offered. Martin’s brow furrowed, but he shrugged it off, coming over. Jon took his hand, feeling a wave of unease come over him. From where, he couldn’t say, but as he and Martin walked side by side back to their room, he did his best to quell it. Everything was fine. They were safe here. Martin would be okay.

~~~~

“Where do you think Basira is right now?” Martin asks one evening.

“I, uh. I don’t know.” Jon says, caught a little off-guard. Martin frowns.

“She can take care of herself, at least.” Martin sighs. “I just don’t think it was healthy. I mean, we knew Daisy, or you did, anyway. We could, I don’t know, help each other heal?”

“I’m not sure Basira would want me to patch up an open wound.” Jon says. He tries to remember what Daisy’s voice sounded like, not the garbled intonation of the hunt but her voice. Tired, or exasperated, but trusting, eventually? Trusting of him. The bond of the afflicted.

“You’re probably right, but still,” Martin keeps talking, and his voice is something Jon can anchor himself to. “There’s safety in numbers.”

“She’ll be fine.” He reassures Martin (and himself.) Martin makes a humming noise of agreement.

“We should go soon, though. We don’t want her to get to London and have to wait for us.” He says it like a joke. It just takes Jon a few seconds to register that. The words come through first, the meanings, and then the tone, like he’s dissecting the sentences. He makes himself smile and hopes it looks natural.

“Of course not.” It is exhausting to talk. It shouldn’t be, but the words are Sisyphean boulders up a hill, and he’s so tired already. Always tired.

“I hope Melanie and Georgie are alright.” The words hit Jon’s ears like the dull thump of water against pavement, uselessly. He stares at Martin. No matter how long he looks at his face, he can’t see it in his mind’s eye. He could look away and all that would be left would be the blurry afterimage of him like a painting dipped in water, smeared colors and features he couldn’t discern.

“Who?” He forces the words out, and Martin’s face falls. He goes silent for a long minute.

“I think... We should leave tomorrow.” He says, finally.

“What?” Martin grimaces slightly. “Are you sure? We could stay longer, if you need the rest. I wouldn’t mind-”

“Jon,” he interrupts. “I’m sure.” Jon goes quiet. Part of him wants to argue. Martin needs this place, more than he needs to be out there, inundated with the Eye and all that it beheld. Jon’s already used to feeling out of place in his own skin, but Martin’s still human and he can exist here without the world trying to claw him apart whenever it can. But another part of him knows that he’s only going to get worse, and, god, he’ll forget more and more, he’ll forget Tim, Daisy, Basira. He’ll forget Martin. Please, god, he can’t forget Martin.

“Tomorrow.” He repeats. He takes Martin’s hand and holds it. Holds on.

**Author's Note:**

> ha ha jon's probably gonna die at the end of this podcast and im Not Okay.
> 
> ~~also Annabelle Cane is like 6'3'' don't @ me~~


End file.
